


The Actor

by Severa



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Actors, Gen, Norse Mythology - Freeform, TDW Spoilers, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1332121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severa/pseuds/Severa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A great actor is a master of manipulation; he has perfected the art of being someone else, of casting a false face. To be a great actor is to be a great liar.</p><p>Perhaps a great actor is also a god of lies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This came from a random thought, and really isn't meant to make much sense. More self-indulgent writing.
> 
> Semi-inspired by the way Loki was resurrected prior to the Journey Into Mystery series. Except Loki gets to keep all his memories this time.

Bleeding in from a shadow, Hela slipped silently into a new realm.

She had not expected him to die like this. If she had ever entertained herself by thinking on the possible circumstances that would herald his end, it would have always been under the assumption that it had been of his choosing. It would be part of the plan, or some failed scheme; he would have chosen the moment for his finale, or at least accepted that he might die as a possible outcome. It would happen in a blaze of glory and power, tainted with madness. He would die for himself. Never would he die for the sake of another. 

Definitely not for the mighty Thor. 

She had always thought Loki cared too little for others. His actions, so carefully planned and executed, were taken in his own interest.

Then again, she mused, that would make him predictable. Loki was many things, but he never would he allow himself to be that. Predictability was not in his nature. Even she, in all her years, had found in difficult to map out his life. His destiny was clear, but the path that walked to find it had always been shrouded in shadows.

If Hela had been capable of true emotion, she might have been proud of him. But alas, the accents of life had long left her ragged form.

From where she stood, his back was turned to her. Loki, blood son of Laufey, raised son of Odin and Frigga, brother of Thor, God of Mischief, stood over his own corpse in contemplation. She knew his eyes were on Svartalfheim's mountains, where the speck of a red mantle could be seen. Thor was walking away, leaving his brother behind for the last time.

Loki, sentimental. How odd.

"And so, my sweet Prince, here we stand."

When she spoke, his entire form tensed. She had been undetected and he unaware; it was not often someone got the better of him. Unaccustomed to being taken off-guard, he tried his best to maintain composure.

"Amora?" he questioned, confused. 

Disappointment came and went. He did not remember her voice, but she should have expected this. In time, all had forgotten her, that bright-eyed child haunted by ill omens. Cast out by her grandfather, she had faded from memory. They only cared to remember when they stood at her gates.

"Nay." Hela approached, reaching out to touch him. But she halted, hesitant; her hand hovered above his shoulder, as if she feared the contact. "Those of your life are far from you, now."

Then, recognition.

"Hela."

He turned his back on the fading visage of Thor, attention drawn to her. His green eyes were calm at first, uncertain -- perhaps even relieved. But once they fell upon her form, emotion hurricaned through him. Anger, rage, sorrow, and despair; hurt, concern, grief, and guilt. All of it, however, was soon drowned out by one raging passion: fury.

"I will _kill_ him." A solemn oath.

Hela only smiled, her hand settling on the angles of his jaw. Her expression might have been beautiful, once, but it was marred by injury. She had only half a face, half a body, with a left side made only of shifting darkness. A prophecy had been whispered into the AllFather's ear centuries ago, damning her for eternity. She had been cast aside.

Exile upon her, Odin decreed. Exile upon her brothers. She remembered her Father pleading, and then a long, dark, twisting fall.

Odin's exile left her deformed -- where her body had crumbled away, broken and shattered by impact, her shadowed half had been born. She had found home in a misty realm, where the souls of the dead resided. Its halls were hers and she was the mistress of the souls within them, forever half alive and half dead. Forever branded.

"Ah, but Loki... you are already killed." Her thumb ran over the sharp accent of his cheekbone, which she shared on her right side. "Odin is far from your vengeful grasp."

His rage continued at this knowledge, but it was fleeting. Her presence seemed to diffuse it, calm coaxed by her touch.

"Oh, my sweet Prince." She whispered, her hand falling. "I would give you all. You would have a throne, the highest and most mighty, with subjects to rule. A hall to feast in. Endless power, with the kingship you crave -- all of it yours, for all of eternity." She stepped back and away, moving around him to see his corpse on the ground. "...But 'tis not the fate of Loki."

He was only watching her, quiet, as she spoke her thoughts. Her shifting half wisped and swirled in the wind, but it maintained some form in the folds of her cloak. They were silent for what seemed like ages, until the red speck of Thor was absent from the mountains beyond.

"Ask it of me."

Loki looked up at her words, an eyebrow arched in question.

"Ask what?"

She met his gaze, not deigning to give him response.

"It is impossible, is it not?" he continued, "Whyever would I trouble myself to ask such a thing, if it cannot be granted?"

"You doubt me." She gave her half smile, faint and crooked. "I am death."

"And so is your duty."

"But death can be cheated, my Prince." She looked over his wasted form between them, tilting her head to the side. "You are the God of Mischief. Of Lies. Cheat me. It is your nature."

Hela could see how his mind worked with her words, sketching out the possible paths that might be taken. It was an instinctual, almost involuntary reaction. He had been playing his games for far too long. She continued on.

"Your destiny is not to die here.  _Ask it of me_."

His jaw set and he turned his gaze away. Perhaps this was difficult, she realized. He had suffered much, and death was his refuge from all that threatened him. Her embrace was his peace, his safety. 

But this was not his fate. They both knew it. He could feel the want for life blazing within him still, and all she needed were those words.

"Then I shall." A silent moment came, passed. His voice was dry and raw when he spoke. "Sweet Hela, my sweet Hela... let me escape your embrace."

She gave a long breath, which frosted in the air before her. 

"As you say."

His world began to darken as her magic began to work, weaving through his soul.

"Loki will be given life anew." Hela decreed to all and to none. "Hidden away in Midgard, where he will be safe from those that would harm him. He will live among them, as a mortal, until the day comes when Loki will be freed from his ignorance. Reborn."

He did not react to her words. Instead, he watched her work, a small smirk faint on his lips. Was that pride in his eyes? Or sadness?

"Time bows to my will, Loki. Keep note of it and all will be well. I will seed your soul in the days that have already passed so you might awaken not long after... this."

She gestured to his corpse. He understood, even as his visage began to flicker and fade, his soul being spirited away for reincarnation.

"Be safe, Father. May we meet again."

And then he was gone.

* * *

Oh, he was going to be late. Late was not good, late was not _nice,_ late was a bad impression on him and everyone that had helped him land the audition...

He imagined a white rabbit chanting "I'm late, I'm late!" in his ears as he ducked into a taxi. A few extra dollars were incentive enough for the driver to perform nothing short of a miracle, and he arrived in the nick of time. The Actor exited the car with many thanks and as much extra payment as he could spare, and then darted inside the building.

He was on time.

Timing was important. Timing was everything.

He got the role. The movie did well. This brought him press conferences and fans, red carpets and interviews. Someone, somewhere, was quoted as saying that he was a master of his craft; a finely tuned instrument, just waiting to be played. Another word rose up suggesting that for all his fans knew, the Actor's prowess might be so mighty that his natural demeanor could have been pure manipulation. A game, a role he played. That he was wicked on the inside, waiting for his moment to shine.

A harmless joke, no doubt, and the Actor felt like he should be flattered by it. It was beyond ridiculous, but there must have been kind intentions from the author. He was talented. Yes, he liked to think that much was true.

He continued to live his life. He made friends, some friends more successful than him, and sometimes he caught glimpses of the "movie star" lifestyle when he was the plus one to an event. Like tonight.

He found himself nervous, surrounded by society's finest. It was a charity event -- routine, really, even he had done this before. But there were far more important people than entertainers here. There were _heroes._ Legitimate, true-flesh heroes.

Iron Man, Captain America, the Mighty Thor -- all of them, the Avengers, gathered for the benefit of others. Tonight's order was the final leg of fundraising to rebuild after the battle of New York and the London Crisis. Of course they would be here.

He glimpsed them about the room throughout the night; he bumped elbows with Tony Stark at the bar, completely by accident. Iron Man had smiled, winked at him, and bought him a drink. The small talk and pleasantries only lasted as long as it took for them to be interrupted. Thor Odinson -- the actual, living and breathing _Thor_ \-- came up to them, all smiles and Ye Olde English.

But then, for whatever reason, Thor's jovial nature was washed away in an expression of pain. The Actor saw it, and so did Stark. So the billionaire bid his new drinking buddy farewell and pulled the thunder god aside, questioning him like a good friend would.

Thor forced a laugh, shook his head, and squared his shoulders. Whatever haunted him had passed, but the Actor could not shake the image from his brain.

Thor had been in pain to see _him._

That didn't make any sense (Had they even met, before? Did Thor not like his movies?), so the Actor just kept drinking. A pretty woman took his interest, and he took hers. He lost himself in the night.

The following morning, it was back to his routine. Rehearsals started early, so he rose from his bed and dressed for a long day. He made his way to the theatre, arriving fifteen minutes early, as always. Being exactly on time was great, but being there before others was even better. Time to chat with other early-birds. Perhaps find an unexpected opportunity because you were the only one there to be available for it.

Today, his eagerness earned him exactly that: an unexpected opportunity.

Said opportunity, however, was the opportunity to _die._

The thing about living in New York City was that you had to be ready for anything. Literally. The people were known for being unique, yes, but there were also heroes and villains. Super-villains, at that, and aliens. Battles, blood, and gore. Things happened that made insurance companies raise their brows - _Iron Man did what to your car, now?_  and _We don't cover plasma-blast damage, no._ -and they happened almost every month. As a resident of the Big Apple, you just had to accept that it was a part of the risk of living there. You could get caught in the cross fire.

A gorgeous woman, laughing mad and causing quite a ruckus, had found her way to the street where the Actor's theatre resided. She had a friend with a fondness for battle axes, and her favorite tool seemed to be magic.

New Yorkers really didn't like magic.

He'd tried to stay out of sight and out of mind (the general advised protocol for civilians) but the Black Widow had darted down his chosen alleyway for cover. She was closely followed by Captain America. They stayed near the mouth, talking strategy. The Actor remained quite close to the backstage door of the building, wishing that someone had gotten there before him to unlock it.

Then she came.

The woman, gleeful in her chaos, materialized behind the duo and sent them sprawling back into the fray with a burst of encouraging green light. The Actor didn't remember making a sound, but he must have; she turned her head fractionally, sensing someone behind.

When her green eyes met his blue, both sets widened. One in fear, one in surprise. Then, absolute joy in hers.

"Oh, my dear one." she crooned, turning fully to him. "Odin proclaimed you dead."

The Actor tried for a smile, pretended this was just a scene, and stood up a little straighter.

"I couldn't say I have the faintest idea what you're talking about, miss." He wrung his hands behind his back, nervous. "Please, if I might--"

Then her hand was on his shirt collar, lifting him off the ground. He grabbed at her wrist desperately, but she was more concerned about giving him a once-over than to notice how he scratched her.

"Ooooh." She sang her unshared realization, then threw her head back and laughed. "Only you could talk your way out of her grasp."

"Her?" He could barely hear himself talking.

"I'm impressed, L--"

" _AMORA!_ "

Then there was crack of thunder, a bolt of lightning, and the world spun. When it righted again they were standing on some roof, his feet now returned to the ground. His kidnapper, this Amora, was holding him as a shield in front of her. He really should have minded this more than he did, but he was too frightened to be anything but numb.

She let go of him, but it soon became apparent that her hold was not needed to keep him in place. Magic had rendered him immobile. She still stood behind him; he was a shield. Was this how he was going to die?

His thoughts wandered as the Avengers began to circle in on their target. Why wasn't he afraid? He did very much enjoy living; was it magic that numbed him now, or was he simply that terrified? Surely, fear itself could not make one numb -- everything he had ever learned about fear and instinct told him that he should be in a full, life-preserving panic at the moment.

Just as the fourth Avenger converged at this meeting point, something in him stirred. Something he was unfamiliar with, something like a passing madness. It was an urge to laugh, to roll his eyes and make a grand gesture.

But he was still, because magic bade him to be. Amora spoke behind him, goading her enemies to attack. They could not see him, he soon realized -- Captain America, in his predictable way, was fond of keeping civilians alive. They would have said something about his presence by now.

Then, Iron Man's voice: "Thor, _now._ "

The great thunderer threw his hammer. Amora laughed like a mad woman and snapped her fingers, then disappeared before anything could touch her.

Mjolnir impacted with his chest and the Actor felt his body give way. The magic broke and he was thrown from his position, able to see the wide eyes of surprised heroes as he became visible again.

There was pain. Someone screamed. His world went black, but his peripherals danced with green.

He heard soft, familiar words in his ear.

 _"Live well, Father."_ Hela whispered, unseen. _"Your timing was perfect."_

* * *

Tony and Clint had cursed creatively when the magic bitch had beamed herself out, taking the axe man with her, but they were both speechless when her little prank came to light. The world slowed, Tony's eyes widened, and JARVIS said something he didn't register. Thor couldn't call his hammer back in time.

The Avengers were frozen as they watched a civilian casualty play out before their eyes, all of them utterly helpless to stop it.

The guy's body impacted with the metal door to the stairwell and Mjolnir's force tore it straight off its hinges. The brick wall behind that crumbled, but it slowed him enough to that he skidded to a halt on the other side, missing the edge of the roof by inches. The hammer sang on the final impact and Steve was already moving, running to go see if the poor bastard was still alive.

Tony sighed. There was no way. But he went to go look, because everyone else was following Steve's example.

What he saw... well, what he saw was not what he expected.

What he had expected was gore. If Mjolnir hadn't gone straight through the chest, it would have collapsed the ribs and probably turned everything inside to human slushie. He had expected to see a body that looked like a half-deflated balloon, complete with rag-doll limbs, blood pools, and road rash.

Instead there was a normal man, cut and bruised, but _alive_. Breathing. The slow rise and fall of his chest moved with Mjolnir, which perched on top his rib cage like it hadn't harmed him. Steve was staring. Thor, who had lumbered over instead of calling his weapon back, looked perplexed.

"It cannot be." he whispered.

Then a bolt of lighting, a green fucking bolt of goddamn lighting, struck the roof. Tony reared back a few feet in suite with the rest of the Avengers, but he could still hear Thor all but chanting in his ear: _"It cannot be, it cannot be, nay... It cannot be."_

When he looked again, he saw the stuff of his nightmares.

All leather and gold and green, Loki lay under the unmovable might of Mjolnir, literally crackling with green magic. A moment of silence came and went.

Then, he fucking _smiled_.

"Ah, but it is, brother mine."

Loki cast green eyes to Thor, who was pale as death.

"Now, kindly remove your hammer from my chest."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FujiDawn left a comment wanting more. Ask and you shall receive (muse be willing).
> 
> On a side-note, the first half has been fussed with a bit. Nothing really changed, pieces of it just read differently (better) now. Thanks for reading!

Thor had stared like the oaf he was. Vulgarities had spilled from the mortals' mouths, joined by a surprised oath to a foreign, obnoxiously _Christian_ God.

All this and more Loki had expected from them. The circumstance which he found himself in, however, had not been the one he had forseen. In the last fading moments of his consciousness on Svartalfheim, a scenario had been sketched in his mind -- Thor discovering him on the planet he claimed to be protector of, having gone searching when no trace of him had been found in Hel. Loki would have been reborn out of his brother's sentiment, offered Mjolnir to break him free from his ignorance. Revived in a rare moment of peace betwixt the two brothers.

The alternative that had taken place instead was nothing to complain about, however. It was even more fitting. Loki belonged in chaos.

He was back.

Reborn, returned, alive, undefeated; power and magic surged through his body, finally released from their bonds. He was himself again. He was sorcery, knowledge, wit, and power. Untamable, reckless power.

Dutifully, Thor had removed Mjolnir's weight from Loki's chest, for once silent in his shock. His comrades had immediately proved themselves less than hospitable, and the Man of Iron opened fire.

It was beside the point that the moment Loki had gained his freedom he had duplicated himself sixteen times over, each illusion laughing mad as green lightning still danced across their skins. A terrifying sight, no doubt, but what impressed him was that Anthony Stark was able to neutralize every single target with only one command.

Falling was just another way of flying for Loki. Stark's incendiary projectiles had dispelled his illusions and exploded upon his own chest, flinging him from the edge of the rooftop. There was little doubt that he would have at least survived the fall (twenty stories' flight was child's play for a Norse God) if he did not evade it, but with the brazen loyalty of an elder brother, Thor had plucked him from the air before Loki had decided upon his course of action.

The Avenger's Tower had been next. The lot of them returned, lacking the hulking green monster, to the monument of narcissism that Loki had once claimed as his own. However temporary his stay had been was irrelevant.

Stark had immediately reported to his bar fridge once freed from his suit. Captain America had set down his shield and attempted for calm, but his demeanor indicated he was still prepared for battle. The assassins were much the same, lingering near doorways with fingers twitching to jump to their weapons. Only Thor, foolish, sweet Thor, had found any joy in this situation.

One enormous hand clasped the side of Loki's neck and his fingers pressed through an expanse of short, raven black hair. The Actor had kept it cut far too short, much to Loki's vain displeasure. But time would correct the less than preferential style.

The demand to explain himself came. Thor felt he had been twice slighted by believing and grieving his brother's false deaths, but Loki talked his anger away. In simple, descriptive words. Thor's attitude changed as expected, angry tears clearing and shocked realization taking place of the confusion he had felt before. Though his shield-brothers and sister had only blank stares of disbelief to hear Loki's truths, it had all ended with Thor's ostentatious smile and a second hand clapping Loki on the shoulder.

"How glorious." Thor had said, "To be reunited and reborn all in one fateful encounter."

It was Loki's turn for his mood to sour. Glorious, his brother said.  _ Glorious. _ Leave it Thor to be so blind.

Loki had repeated the word aloud with venom on his tongue, then struck his brother in the jaw. A crack sounded loud, bone giving way; the Avengers were weapon ready again, but Thor only held his fractured jaw. Mjolnir was not called.

"When you know the pain of a child damned to exile, call it  _ glorious _ then." he had hissed. "When she is torn from you,  _ Odin _ son, and when your only opportunity to see her is in the cold embrace of your own death, dare to call it glorious."

Then Loki was gone. An arrow passed through the space he had once occupied only seconds prior, notching into the wall with a defeated thud.

Slipping out of a shadow, Loki would step into the Actor's apartment. His apartment.

His anger had gone as quickly as it had risen up, leaving him now with only the throb of his knuckles. No, he did not regret striking the mighty Thor -- in fact, he hoped Thor would instead regret daring to speak so carelessly. In his early life, Loki had suffered many things in silence. Most often times those who had slighted him simply forgot their misdeeds, as if they had been righteous all along. But to bring back the past after having never said a word of it? To acknowledge a crime and call it good fortune that Loki had managed to circumvent a decree by dying?

He could only suffer imbeciles for so long.

Collecting himself, he spread his fingers wide and exhaled. Magic was still pounding through him, relentless and free, wanting for release. Loki calmed these desires by willing his transformation to quicken; magic was weaving through every vein and muscle, chasing away the remnants of mortal blood and weakness. He would be restored to full Asgardian potential soon enough (Asgardian-disguised Jotunn, were one to be technical), but for the moment he was content to deal with the discomforts his reconstruction dictated.

Standing in this residence, he felt starkly out of place. Though it was familiar and though he had called it home not hours ago, it felt distinctly not his. But here, he had temporary privacy. If the so-called heroes of Midgard wished to find him, it would take them time to discover the Actor's home address. Were they even to think to look here, of course. Thor was likely to tell them Loki would never be so sentimental, that he would have spirited himself somewhere far from Midgard's grasp.

Loki could count on Thor to be predictable.

Even so, standing in this home stirred memories. He remembered all. Himself before and after this rebirth, as well as his time as a mortal between. Two personalities, two different lives, so distinctively different from the other. The Actor's thoughts were quickly becoming distant memory, but fragments of his life remained vivid and strong in his mind. The Actor had known family and friendship, and had excelled in his chosen craft. Though he no longer existed, in the simplest sense,  _ something  _ had been left behind in his wake. A legacy? If not so much, there were still his parents and siblings, his friends, and even his lover. All left behind, currently ignorant of their loss.

Loki told himself he did not care.

Sentimentality was not in his nature.

However, Loki was not who he had been. This form, this body, had been washed of the sins of the past. He imagined his corpse on the black sands of the dark world, rotting and feasted upon by crows. That lifeless husk was still bound by the consequences of his past. Odin's magic, a testimony of old punishments, restricting Loki's power and barring him from seeing those deemed unworthy and dangerous. Remnants of the Other's brand, useless and weak without the Tesseract, with a whisper of want for the sapphire cube left behind. The Mad Titan's will branded into his brain. Numerous scars and countless parasitic spells that proved his trials in battle.

This body was free of all of that.

Loki was  _ free. _

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with crisp air. The magic was settling; he was himself once more, powerful and true.

Forever free. Never a victim of others, never bound by weak sentiment.

Even so, Loki did loathe loose ends.

* * *

The Actor had seven days left in which to live. To be (and not to be, soon thereafter). 

Loki took the form, all blonde hair and blue eyes, and resumed the life he had lived as a mortal.

The role was not hard to play. Neither the Actor nor his part at work.

Rehearsals were attended to. Mindfully, Loki would prepare the Actor's understudy for his leading role -- "In case of accident. Y'know, with my luck, I'll fall off the stage and break a leg on the first night!" -- and continue where he had left off, never hinting that anything had changed. He attended social events. Courted his lover (in Midgardian venacular: took her out on dates). Spoke to the parents who lived across the ocean, and visited a nearby sister. Wrote a letter to the other one, who had a family of her own.

The days bled into each other, a boring and tedious mortal life continued. Still, there was an odd comfort to it.

On the seventh day, rehearsals transferred into performances. For opening night, the Actor got his long sought-after spotlight. In the days to come, critics would applaud him. He was revolutionary, bold, awe-inspiring, and wondrous. Yet, in the same breath, they would mourn him. Appraise his work and grieve the loss, claiming the acting community had been robbed of the brightest star that could have ever come to be.

Loki did not ponder over what the audience would think. He would not be curious enough to read what people had written about his one and only performance. No, he was more preoccupied in what his performance was doing in the moment.

The story intrigued the audience. His work absolutely  _ enslaved  _ them.

It was not unlike being worshiped. At his command their emotions bowed to his will. When he asked for sorrow, they wept. Demanding laughter from them was obliged with happy enthusiasm. Shock, horror, happiness, awe, grief, question -- any thought or any emotion could be drawn from them through careful acting. By pretending to be someone he was not, through lying to them and manipulating their heartstrings. It was his signature talent.

Before, he would have never imagined himself to entertain the masses. He was a King; the masses were meant to entertain him. But for this night, for this moment, he indulged in the stage. He played the audience as well as he played the Actor.

They applauded. He bowed with the rest of the cast.

The curtains were drawn.

As people began to leave the theatre, Loki lingered outside the stage door in observation. Days before, Amora had found him here. A rooftop away this life he pretended to live had ended. The Actor had been dispelled.

It was only fitting that the Actor truly die in a similar fashion.

His plan was to climb up to that roof, which was still a mess on the other side of that street. He would climb it, stage it to seem that some ghastly murder had taken place. Leave an illusion behind to count as a body. Let his family -- nay,  _ the  _ family grieve. Burn the corpse and take the ashes.

But as he crossed the street, it seemed someone else had a different plan in mind. All he saw was a pair of bright lights flicked on at the last moment, moving at a speed they shouldn't. Then, collision.

When the car hit him, he hardly had time to remember that he had to act as any mortal would. The impact should be fatal, he noted, and he knew to act accordingly.

Improvisation was a talent of his, entertainer or not. He moved as a human's body would, rolling onto the hood and over the cab, being very careful not to leave a trail of inhuman dents in his wake. False blood and false injuries racked up as they were meant to by his magic, but when he hit the road, his illusion was not in the forefront of his mind. Neither were the screaming passers by, nor the familiar faces that crowded about him in horror.

What he was thinking of was the driver.

Anthony Stark. Laughing.

Damn him to Hel.

* * *

Of course they did not find the billionaire with a penchant for vehicular manslaughter. Loki gathered that much from the gossiping of the morticians.

Pretending to be dead was so terribly dull. Why would Thor think him patient enough to willfully go through this arduous process?

There had been little opportunity to replace his true form with an illusion after the crash. Since his unfortunate acquaintance with the car, someone had always been at his side. Watching, crying, cursing... human grief was entertaining, at the least. But everything got boring after a time.

When the caretakers of the dead finally left him be, he rolled off of the cold table and left a physical duplicate behind. His true self was invisible, meaning no unfortunate security guards were gawking at a possible zombie apocalypse scare as one of the dead rose from the examination table.

As his glamour faded and he returned to his rightful appearance, Loki had decided on another interesting way to murder Anthony Stark. Having been passing the time by planning out multiple possibilities to rid Midgard of its metal savior, he had just reached his two hundredth and thirty-second scenario.

* * *

He was almost surprised that the man did not turn on him and attack immediately.

Instead, suffering an apparent lack of self-preservation instincts, Anthony Stark continued working on his metal gauntlet, just barely having glanced up at Loki.

"Three days, huh? Didn't think it would take you that long."

The nerve on him.

"You enjoyed it, did you not?"

Anthony laughed, glancing up from his work again. His eyebrow raised.

"Of course I did." As if it were obvious.

"Then I shall enjoy skinning you alive." Loki's voice was ice and daggers.

The moment he stepped forward, the gauntlet was on Stark's hand and raised, glowing bright at the palm as his fingers twitched in warning. Perhaps he did have some sense for defense in him after all.

"C'mon, Shakespeare. No harm, no foul."

"No harm?" Loki continued forward, until Stark backed himself into a wall. "You hit me with one of your infernal machines."

"Still stuck on that? A hit in and run is a great cover-up, if I do say so myself. And I don't see a bruise on you."

It was Loki's turn to raise a brow. He halted in his approach, which gave his opponent a small measure of relief.

"How were you to know if I wished to be rid of that persona or not?"

The man smiled. "Seriously? Giving off all his stuff, getting mushy-gushy with the folks. Walking into traffic." He laughed. "Those are preparations for dying -- I know, Pepper got pissed when I sold the art collection." His brow furrowed. "Wonder what they did with it."

Loki tilted his head by the smallest fraction. He should have expected at least one of the Avengers to have been spying on him.

"But what means did you gather this information?"

He had made sure none of them had been within a three block radius at any time. He knew he had not missed anything.

"My tech runs 66% of the developed world."

_ "68%, Sir." _

Loki looked up to the ceiling, where the disembodied voice had originated. A technology of some sort, he suspected; he had encountered it during the battle. A spell had muted its abilities then.

"68%." Stark barreled on. "If you don't think I have a back door into everywhere, you're as clueless as Cap' in a Best Buy."

Loki's only response was a noncommittal sound. The reference made was not understood, but was decidedly unimportant. His eyes finally traveled back down from the ceiling.

"You were incorrect to assume I was in need of assistance."

"I know." Stark was grinning again, proving himself more the fool as his gauntlet dropped. "But what other opportunity do I get to hit you with a car?"

 


End file.
